Semblance of Self
by whitherthen
Summary: Faithcentric futurefic. Written prior to AtS S5 and the publication of BtVS Season Eight. The reconstruction process has changed our gang in unexpected ways. This fic is quite dark, so if that's not your cup of tea, don't read!
1. Chapter 1

This time it was Las Vegas.

Faith sighed as she downed two Percocet with a gulp of Jack and Coke. She wished the kid back in coach would quit crying. They'd already boarded by the time she'd settled into her cushy leather seat - young mother with a baby who had barely graduated from infancy. Poor thing started screaming as soon as they had taken off. Too young to be on a plane anyway, since you can't exactly explain cabin pressure at that age. Headache had come on with a vengeance after five straight minutes of that wailing.

Her mind wandered back to a time when she felt lucky to afford a bus ticket. Now she wished she'd taken the jet instead of flying commercial. The clothes on her back cost more money than she'd seen in six months back then. Sometimes she couldn't believe that she'd blundered her way into this life. In the beginning, when Sunnydale was fresh in its grave, the money was a concept. Conversation would last from dusk till dawn in the Hyperion lobby, ideas flowing with wine. The Council was overhauled in a week with words. Those nights were golden; it almost made her smile to think back.

They'd thought they had the demon world by the balls. Hell, with hundreds of slayers ripe for the picking, they should have. All they needed were the funds to turn their dream into reality. Then the technicalities were litigated into oblivion by Angel's new pet, Wolfram & Hart, and the money became tangible. The Council was rebirthed, incorporated, and franchised. Ten cells in the first year, thirty-six in two. Faith traveled to countries she'd never even heard of, mindlessly desperate in her quest to increase the ranks. She was fluent in four languages, and could define the concept of "slayer" in eleven more. The frequent flier miles she'd accumulated could take her to Neptune. And back.

Too much money made even the most passionate advocates complacent. People could be paid to care _**for**_ you. From high up in a corporate penthouse, you could look out the window and convince yourself that those below were fighting your cause. The calls slowed and you could rely on your assistants to give you daily reports. Then weekly. Then an e-mail every third Wednesday. Pretty soon you were too busy having insipid conversations over forty dollar salads to remember the crater in Southern California you almost died in.

It was for that reason that Faith worked the trenches, sweating through third-world airports, and spending thousands of dollars every year on translators and cultural coaches. This hard-ass out of South Boston, reformed killer, former fugitive, was now a world traveler. If she allowed herself to stop and think about it, she might lose her mind. Instead she stayed busy. When Faith wasn't explaining sacred birthrights to skeptical young girls, she was carving the more seasoned slayers into fierce warriors.

One week out of every month she ran the Council's most difficult training out of the Hellmouth itself. Cleveland was Kennedy's territory now, but the trust-fund bitch was scarce when this slayer rolled into town. Whoever survived the week of kamikaze patrolling unscathed was farmed out to a hot spot, cities chosen by Willow Herself. Faith had cleared September's session last night. The week had been the necessary slaying binge needed to give her some semblance of self. It always brought her within kissing distance of the girl she used to be, the necessary reminder of the darkness that lay dormant in her soul. This was the only day that she had the strength to complete her other monthly ritual.

Willow had called early this morning, right on schedule. After giving the run-down of relocations for the recent graduates, she had named the city of Faith's next destination. The brunette had sighed, jumped online mid-conversation, and booked her flight.

"It's bad this time." Willow sniveled, as if her tears made a difference.

"When isn't it?" Faith asked in a flat voice. She was tired of the witch's tears, tired of everyone caring so fucking much, tired of having to do the dirty work. The slayer hung up the phone without another word, ignoring the hiccup that meant the beginning of another long-distance crying jag from the most powerful known Wicca in the world. She was on the plane two hours later.

This time it was Las Vegas.


	2. Chapter 2

Jesus, Las Vegas was hot in September, especially for someone fresh out of Cleveland. She'd only been outside long enough to walk from the cab to the entrance of the Luxor, but already her silk blouse was suctioned to her back. As soon as Faith entered the hotel, however, her sweat-soaked body started cooling rapidly. Now, as she rode the elevator into the sky, she was practically shivering.

The Percocet and Jack had acted quickly, most likely because she hadn't eaten yet that day. The headache disappeared and she started feeling loopy, and had nearly gotten lost during her layover in Cincinnati. That airport more closely resembled a mall, and she was certain that it housed more shops than gates. It was only through sheer luck that she had stumbled upon her connecting flight, and then she'd slept the entire way to Nevada. The flight attendant had shaken her awake roughly and hurried her off the empty plane. The woman couldn't possibly understand how necessary it was for Faith to gather her strength. She'd grabbed some iced coffee thing on her way out, wondering briefly if her body would be capable of sleeping and waking up without chemical assistance.

She felt almost clear-headed as the elevator doors slid open, but hesitated for a moment before stepping out into the hall. It was lavishly decorated and perfumed with vase after vase of freshly cut flowers. Faith walked to the door that bore the number Willow had given her over the phone. She knocked briskly and rolled her eyes at the sounds of stumbling and swearing that came from within. The door flew open, and Buffy stood before her, swaying slightly. Mascara ran down her face, as if trying to escape. Her hair was bleached so blonde it was almost white. She wore an oversized tee-shirt that brushed the tops of her knees; one of the sleeves was smeared with blood, obviously from the cut that ran from her mid-forearm down to her wrist.

She didn't even bother hiding it anymore.

Buffy spun on her heel and plopped down on the couch, nonplussed. Faith entered the room and closed the door. She set her suitcase down against the wall and surveyed the damage. She'd certainly seen worse: there were room service trays strewn about the room, some covered in the remnants of half-eaten food. Two fist-sized holes decorated the wall next to the television, which had been turned around to face the wrong direction. A few bottles of liquor lined the coffee table, most of the contents drained. Faith made her way to the bedroom, picked up the phone, and dialed 0 for the front desk.

"Miss Summers will be checking out in two hours." She told the man who answered. "Bill the credit card for all cleaning and repairs." The words came automatically now, unlike the fumbling apologies and explanations she'd offered in the beginning. The slayer made her way back to the living room and stood behind the couch, gazing at the mess of blonde hair that fell over the back.

"You enjoy this, don't you," Buffy muttered without turning around, "swooping down out of the sky to clean up my mess?"

Faith rolled her eyes. The only part of this mess that wasn't staged was the cut on Buffy's arm, and they both knew it. "Get in the shower," she commanded.

The blonde stood and pulled her shirt over her head, dropping it to the floor as she walked down the hall. "You coming?" she tossed over her shoulder.

Faith sighed and followed, unbuttoning her blouse.


	3. Chapter 3

Buffy sat obediently on the shower's bench as tan hands carefully washed the fresh cut on her arm and the half-healed ones on her thigh. Not that it mattered. The skin would just stitch itself back together in a few hours.

"You're a mess this time," Faith stated over the spray of the water.

"Don't tell me Little Miss Seen-It-All can still be shocked."

She looked up sharply at the phrase and saw Buffy's eyes glitter dangerously. Ten years since he'd said it, half as many since she'd repeated it to Buffy and it certainly hadn't been in passing. The words came like a blow, but that was the point. She craved the upper hand, and Faith couldn't fault her for trying. She braced herself for the next assault, but it didn't come. Instead Buffy reached out and tucked a few errant hairs behind Faith's ear. It didn't make sense, the cruelty dovetailed over the gentility, but it never did.

Buffy's hand lingered, thumbing the sweet spot on the side of Faith's neck before pulling her to her feet and backing her against the tile wall. Her slayer sense perked up on cue, heightening her awareness, the smell of Buffy's skin and the sound of her rapid breathing overriding her better judgment. Shaking hands reacquainted themselves with Faith's body, lips and tongue following slowly, teasing until her knees felt weak. For the hundredth time Faith wondered why it couldn't just be an angry fuck, but simultaneously knew this was the most effective form of punishment.

Buffy fidgeted as she sat on the bathroom counter, kicking her feet against the cabinet below and causing it to bang loudly in protest. Her body rocked in time with her swinging legs, making it difficult to apply her makeup.

"How was slayer boot camp?" Buffy asked.

"Good."

"Mortality rate?"

"Zero."

"I'm impressed. Any month that you don't send some promising young slayer to her death is a good one. That's what I say."

"Fuck you."

Buffy laughed and reached forward, brushing her thumb over the curve of the brunette's hipbone.

Faith took a step back, out of reach, holding the tube of mascara in mid-air. "Jesus Christ, can you just let me finish?"

Buffy didn't say another word.

She stretched out on the couch on the private jet as soon as they boarded and fell asleep almost immediately. Faith looked on as the blonde's face went slack, noting how closely it resembled the girl she used to be before she'd been fucked over and betrayed by the Hand-Me-Down Slayer. When Faith was out globe-trotting or in Cleveland, beating the fuck out of demons and slayers alike, she didn't think of these things. Ripping herself apart with the past was a side-effect of being with The Original, accept-no-substitutes blonde slayer.


	4. Chapter 4

Later, when the house had gotten quiet and Buffy was asleep in front of the television, Faith went out onto the balcony and smoked a cigarette. She leaned on the railing and gazed out on the lights of the city below.

This house had been purchased three years earlier, at Giles' behest. He had spent weeks convincing her that the money was there for her, too, and if living in out in the desert would bring her some peace, she should go for it. Faith had felt dizzy as she signed the papers, convinced that at any moment the real estate agent would grab them and rip them up, and say that there'd been some kind of mistake. Murderers weren't allowed to purchase $300,000 homes, no matter how much they atoned.

But the real estate agent had just smiled, and Giles had just smiled, and eventually Faith had just smiled, too. Other than prison, this would be her first permanent mailing address. The slayer had felt dangerously close to happy. The sentiment had grown as housewarming gifts started to arrive from all over the world. Many of the slayers had sent cards and trinkets: a keychain from Kiev, a hand-carved stake from Bujumbura, and even a little snow globe from Darwin, whose inhabitants had probably never even seen snow.

The scattered Scoobies had come together in a concerted effort. Giles had sent a 17th-century crossbow. He'd even written a paragraph about how the Indians had been too quick for the Spanish weapon. A pine armoire had arrived from Omaha with the LaVelle Designs stamp on the crate. The card bore the signatures of both Xander and his pretty young wife. Willow Herself had deigned to show up in person, shortly after a beautifully framed print of Dali's "The Metamorphosis of Narcissus". Faith had become entranced with the work in London two weeks earlier; the witch had just grinned and swore it a coincidence, and proceeded to cast a protection spell on the house.

Buffy and Dawn had sent a sleek little laptop computer and one of those "For Dummies" books. They'd included a jar of sand from their patch of beach in San Diego and a cheerful note encouraging Faith to visit. Dawn had dialed Faith's new number repeatedly on move-in day, succeeding in being the very first caller. It had been a welcome relief from supervising the movers. The slayer had walked out to her balcony and breathed in the warm fall air while listening to the younger Summers talk boys and college plans.

Six weeks later she'd wept openly when they'd put Dawn in the ground.

Faith focused her attention back to the present and listened to the approach of shuffling feet. Buffy pressed her body into Faith's back, slipped the American Spirit Light out from between her fingers and took a drag.

Buffy exhaled, turned and butted the cigarette out in the ashtray, then wrapped her arms around Faith's middle. "What are you thinking about?" She breathed into the brunette's ear, causing her neck hairs to stand on end.

"Cleveland." Faith lied.

"Stop."

She bit her tongue against the tears that threatened, and turned in the slightly older woman's embrace.

"I hate this." Buffy whispered in the darkness as she ran her fingers through Faith's long hair. "I don't want it to be this."

"I know."

Buffy leaned in and pressed her lips to Faith's gently, her hands roaming until eliciting the soft gasp she was waiting for. Faith pulled away and led the thin blonde into the house, all the while wishing that the tiny ember of hope she still harbored would die out.


End file.
